Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. D. W. Griffith's
Production. 'Way Down East.]
'WAY DOWN EAST
A ROMANCE OF NEW ENGLAND LIFE
BY
JOSEPH R. GRISMER
Founded on the Very Successful Play of the
Same Title by
LOTTIE BLAIR PARKER
ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES FROM
D. W. GRIFFITH'S MAGNIFICENT
MOTION PICTURE PRODUCTION OF THE
ORIGINAL STORY AND STAGE PLAY
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS -------------- NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1900_
_By Joseph R. Grismer_
_'Way Down East_
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. All Hail to the Conquering Hero.
II. The Conquering Hero is Disposed to be Human.
III. Containing Some Reflections and the Entrance
of Mephistopheles.
IV. The Mock Marriage.
V. A Little Glimpse of the Garden of Eden.
VI. The Ways of Desolation.
VII. Mother and Daughter.
VIII. In Days of Waiting.
IX. On the Threshold of Shelter.
X. Anna and Sanderson Again Meet.
XI. Rustic Hospitality.
XII. Kate Brewster Holds Sanderson's Attention.
XIII. The Quality of Mercy.
XIV. The Village Gossip Sniffs Scandal.
XV. David Confesses his Love.
XVI. Alone in the Snow.
XVII. The Night in the Snowstorm.
ILLUSTRATIONS
Miss Lillian Gish as Anna Moore. . . . _Frontispiece_
Martha Perkins and Maria Poole.
Martha Perkins tells the story of Anna Moore's past life.
Lillian Gish and Burr McIntosh.
WAY DOWN EAST
CHAPTER I.
ALL HAIL TO THE CONQUERING HERO.
Methinks I feel this youth's perfections,
With an invisible and subtle stealth,
To creep in at mine eyes.--_Shakespeare_.
It had come at last, the day of days, for the two great American
universities; Harvard and Yale were going to play their annual game of
football and the railroad station of Springfield, Mass., momentarily
became more and more thronged with eager partisans of both sides of the
great athletic contest.
All the morning trains from New York, New Haven, Boston and the smaller
towns had been pouring their loads into Springfield. Hampden Park was
a sea of eager faces. The weather was fine and the waiting for the
football game only added to the enjoyment--the appetizer before the
feast.
The north side of the park was a crimson dotted mass full ten thousand
strong; the south side showed the same goodly number blue-bespeckled,
and equally confident. Little ripples of applause woke along the banks
as the familiar faces of old "grads" loomed up, then melted into the
vast throng. These, too, were men of international reputation who had
won their spurs in the great battles of life, and yet, who came back
year after year, to assist by applause in these mimic battles of their
_Alma Mater_.
But the real inspiration to the contestants, were the softer, sweeter
faces scattered among the more rugged ones like flowers growing among
the grain--the smiles, the mantling glow of round young cheeks, the
clapping of little hands--these were the things that made broken
collarbones, scratched faces, and bruised limbs but so many honors to
be contended for, votive offerings to be laid at the little feet of
these fair ones.
Mrs. Standish Tremont's party occupied, as usual, a prominent place on
the Harvard side. She was so great a factor in the social life at
Cambridge that no function could have been a complete success without
the stimulus of her presence. Personally, Mrs. Standish Tremont was
one of those women who never grow old; one would no more have thought
of hazarding a guess about her age than one would have made a similar
calculation about the Goddess of Liberty. She was perennially young,
perennially good-looking, and her entertainments were above reproach.
Some sour old "Grannies" in Boston, who had neither her wit, nor her
health, called her Venus Anno Domino, but they were jealous and cynical
and their testimony cannot be taken as reliable.
What if she had been splitting gloves applauding college games since
the fathers of to-day's contestants had fought and struggled for
similar honors in this very field. She applauded with such vim, and
she gave such delightful dinners afterward, that for the glory of old
Harvard it is to be hoped she will continue to applaud and entertain
the grandsons of to-day's victors, even as she had their sires.
It was said by the uncharitable that the secret of the lady's youth was
the fact that she always surrounded herself with young people, their
pleasure, interests, entertainments were hers; she never permitted
herself to be identified with older people.
To-day, besides several young men who had been out of college for a
year or two, she had her husband's two nieces, the Misses Tremont,
young women well known in Boston's inner circles, her own daughter, a
Mrs. Endicott, a widow, and a very beautiful young girl whom she
introduced as "My cousin, Miss Moore."
Miss Moore was the recipient of more attention than she could well
handle. Mrs. Tremont's cavaliers tried to inveigle her into betting
gloves and bon-bons; they reserved their wittiest replica for her, they
were her ardent allies in all the merry badinage with which their party
whiled away the time waiting for the game to begin. Miss Moore was
getting enough attention to turn the heads of three girls.
At least, that was what her chaperone concluded as she skilfully
concealed her dissatisfaction with a radiant smile. She liked girls to
achieve social success when they were under her wing--it was the next
best thing to scoring success on her own account. But, it was quite a
different matter to invite a poor relation half out of charity, half
out of pity, and then have her outshine one's own daughter, and one's
nieces--the latter being her particular protégés--girls whom she hoped
to assist toward brilliant establishments. The thought was a
disquieting one, the men of their party had been making idiots of
themselves over the girl ever since they left Boston; it was all very
well to be kind to one's poor kin--but charity began at home when there
were girls who had been out three seasons! What was it, that made the
men lose their heads like so many sheep? She adjusted her lorgnette
and again took an inventory of the girl's appearance. It was eminently
satisfactory even when viewed from the critical standard of Mrs.
Standish Tremont. A delicately oval face, with low smooth brow, from
which the night-black hair rippled in softly crested waves and clung
about the temples in tiny circling ringlets, delicate as the faintest
shading of a crayon pencil. Heavily fringed lids that lent mysterious
depths to the great brown eyes that were sorrowful beyond their years.
A mouth made for kisses--a perfect Cupid's bow; in color, the red of
the pomegranate--such was Anna Moore, the great lady's young kinswoman,
who was getting her first glimpse of the world this autumn afternoon.
"You were born to be a Harvard girl, Miss Moore, the crimson becomes
you go perfectly, that great bunch of Jacqueminots is just what you
need to bring out the color in your cheeks," said Arnold Lester, rather
an old beau, and one of Mrs. Endicott's devoted cavaliers.
"Miss Moore is making her roses pale with envy," gallantly answered
Robert Maynard. He had not been able to take his eyes from the girl's
face since he met her.
Anna looked down at her roses and smiled. Her gown and gloves were
black. The great fragrant bunch was the only suggestion of color that
she had worn for over a year. She was still in mourning for her
father, one of the first great financial magnates to go under in the
last Wall Street crash. His failure killed him, and the young daughter
and the invalid wife were left practically unprovided for.
Mrs. Tremont could hardly conceal her annoyance. She had met her young
cousin for the first time the preceding summer and taking a fancy to
her; she exacted a promise from the girl's mother that Anna should pay
her a visit the following autumn. But she reckoned without the girl's
beauty and the havoc it would make with her plans. The discussion as
to the roses outvieing Anna's cheeks in color was abruptly terminated
by a great cheer that rolled simultaneously along both sides of the
field as the two teams entered the lists. Cheer upon cheer went up,
swelled and grew in volume, only to be taken up again and again, till
the sound became one vast echoing roar without apparent end or
beginning.
From the moment the teams appeared, Anna Moore had no eyes or ears for
sights or sounds about her. Every muscle in her lithe young body was
strained to catch a glimpse of one familiar figure. She had little
difficulty in singling him out from the rest. He had stripped off his
sweater and stood with head well down, his great limbs tense, straining
for the word to spring. Anna's breath came quickly, as if she had been
running, the roses that he had sent her heaved with the tumult in her
breast. It seemed to her as if she must cry out with the delight of
seeing him again.
"Look, Grace," said Mrs. Standish Tremont, to the younger of her
nieces, "there is Lennox Sanderson."
"Play!" called the referee, and at the word the Harvard wedge shot
forward and crashed into the onrushing mass of blue-legged bodies. The
mimic war was on, and raged with all the excitement of real battle for
the next three-quarters of an hour; the center was pierced, the flanks
were turned, columns were formed and broken, weak spots were protected,
all the tactics of the science of arms was employed, and yet, neither
side could gain an advantage.
The last minutes of the first half of the game were spent
desperately--Kenneth, the terrible line breaker of Yale, made two
famous charges, Lennox Sanderson, the famous flying half-back, secured
Harvard a temporary advantage by a magnificently supported run.
"Time!" called the referee, and the first half of the game was over.
For fifteen minutes the combatants rested, then resumed their massing,
wedging and driving. Sanderson, who had not appeared to over-exert
himself during the first half of the game, gradually began to turn the
tide in favor of the crimson. After a decoy and a scrimmage,
Sanderson, with the ball wedged tightly under one arm, was seen flying
like a meteor, well covered by his supports. On he dashed at full
speed for the much-desired touch-line. The next minute he had reached
the goal and was buried under a pile of squirming bodies.
Then did the Harvard hosts burst into one mighty and prolonged cheer
that made the air tremble. Sanderson was the hero of the hour.
Gray-haired old men jumped up and shouted his name with that of the
university. It was one mad pandemonium of excitement, till the game
was won, and the crowd woke up amid the "Rah, Rahs, Harvard, Sanderson."
Anna's cheeks burned crimson. She clapped her hands to the final
destruction of her gloves. She patted the roses he had sent her. She
had never dreamed that life was so beautiful, so full of happiness.
She saw him again for just a moment, before they left the park. He
came up to speak to them, with the sweat and grime of battle still upon
him, his hair flying in the breeze. The crowds gave way for the hero;
women gave him their brightest smiles; men involuntarily straightened
their shoulders in tribute to his inches.
Years afterwards, it seemed to Anna, in looking back on the tragedy of
it all, that he had never looked so handsome, never been so absolutely
irresistible as on that autumn day when he had taken her hand and said:
"I couldn't help making that run with your eyes on me."
"And we shall see you at tea, on Saturday?" asked Mrs. Tremont.
"I shall be delighted," he answered: "thank you for persuading Miss
Moore to stay over for another week." Mrs. Tremont smiled, she could
smile if she were on the rack; but she assured herself that she was
done with poverty-stricken beauties till Grace and Maud were married,
at least. For years she had been planning a match between Grace and
Lennox Sanderson.
Anna and Sanderson exchanged looks. Robert Maynard bit his lips and
turned away. He realized that the dearest wish of his life was beyond
reach of it forever. "Ah, well," he murmured to himself--"who could
have a chance against Lennox Sanderson?"